Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan (5 page)

“Making her not the warm-and-fuzzy aunt people automatically love.” Thunder rumbled, but it was a distant sound. “I didn’t anticipate a return visit to hell, Rogan. I pictured all of us moving forward with our lives.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” he remarked.

“It will unless I take it in a more philosophical direction. I’ll work on it,” she promised when his lips twitched. “But don’t expect a miracle in two hours. My museum friends tend to be more pragmatic than the ones I had in San Diego. It rubs off.”

“I met some of your San Diego friends. You’re on a safer path in Salem.”

Probably true, she thought. Then she set her head on the leather rest and told herself not to question what his definition of safe might be.

The highway resembled a long, wet snake, complete with serpentine twists, shadowy dips and slippery rises. Rogan’s musical taste ranged from Clapton and Thorogood to remastered Louis Armstrong. As eclectic and unpredictable a mix as the man himself. Layer in the cloak of mystery he wore so well, and how could she have avoided tumbling into love? The question was, could she tumble back out? Because Rogan was absolutely not the kind of man who stuck around.

An hour ticked by. In that time, they traded the local highway for a two-lane back road and eventually a pitted sliver of asphalt barely wide enough to support a single vehicle.

“I’m told it improves,” Rogan said, reading her mind.

She pushed at her damp hair and peered into the murky nothing that stretched endlessly out in front of them. “So if the potholes shrink from the size of lakes to the size of ponds, we’ll know we’re on the right track. Uh…” She pointed, winced, then breathed out when he avoided a huge expanse of rippling water. She swiveled her head. “Did I see a sign floating in that puddle?”

“It said Welcome to Raven’s Cove. Population 976. Tortured souls and ravens not included.”

She shot him a dry look. “You’re a great help. Look, I know all men believe they have tracking systems built into their DNA, but do you actually know where we are?”

“Still in the continental United States isn’t good enough for you, huh?”

“Still on the continent will do for now.” She watched a large stand of pines bend almost in half. “Is this what they call a nor’easter? Because if it isn’t, I do not want to experience one.”

“Forget the weather. We need to find a cottage called the Bird’s Nest, and like Raven’s Cove, it’s not on the GPS.”

“Good luck to us then, because either there are no lights in this town or the power’s out from here to, well, wherever here leads.”

They were bouncing through a series of bone-jarring ruts when the headlights revealed a fork in the road. And a fence, Jasmine realized. A sagging, possibly white fence missing several pickets.

“There’s a sign on the gate.” She tipped her head and tried to read the wildly blowing plaque suspended from the gatepost by a chain. “It says something Nest. And there’s a huddled black building to my right.”

Rogan halted the truck, but snagged her wrist before she could move. “Daniel’s name is Leonard Grant. He goes by Lenny or Len. He teaches English at the local middle school. His hobbies are bird-watching and cooking. He does Sunday dinners for seniors. His ex-wife, Sally, lived in Tulsa until her death four years ago. Brain aneurysm. No kids, no pets. I’m a football buddy from Michigan State. You’re my wife of seven years.”

Torn between laughing and making him go through it all again just for the hell of it, Jasmine opted for boggier ground and offered a guileless smile. “Interesting.” Leaning in, she stroked a fingernail from his cheek to his mouth. “Tell me, are we happily married?”

His slow grin caused her pulse to jump. “Do you want us to be?”

“It would be a new experience.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “You’re playing with fire, love. I hope you know that.”

She was playing with dynamite, lighting matches and not ready to stop. Bringing her mouth temptingly closer, she lowered her lashes. “I’m pretty sure at least one of us will get burned no matter how this turns out. But remember, I’ve done the marriage thing for real. I know how to avoid the flames.”

His smile didn’t change; but the gleam in his eyes warned her she’d gone too far. In that split second of time, the hand on her wrist moved to her neck, and his mouth covered hers in a kiss that drained every thought from her head.

Because she knew this was something she’d asked for, she made no effort to pull free. Instead, she let a satisfied purr escape from her throat.

There was need and hunger on both sides. Jasmine also recognized and savored a punch of excitement. The taste of Rogan was one of pure sex. He wanted and he took, but so did she, with abandon.

While his lips explored, she ran her hands under his jacket, felt the heat and strength of his body, the warmth of his skin. Greed threatened to overtake her as his tongue dipped and rediscovered every part of her mouth. Her heart knocked against her ribs. But when he started to push the top of her dress aside, a red flag began to wave.

Tempted, highly tempted, to ignore it, she soldiered up and dragged her mouth free. She needed air and balance and a long moment for sanity to take root.

His half smile might have done her in if she hadn’t spied the arrogance behind it. Temper replaced hunger in a heartbeat, and she shoved him back.

“You set me up—”

He crushed his lips back onto hers, cutting her off swiftly. But only briefly, and with just enough heat to dissipate her anger.

He kept his fingers around her neck when he pulled away. “I wasn’t baiting you, Jasmine, or trying to take either of us where we know better than to go.”

She planted her hands on his chest, not trusting him or herself enough to let them drop. “You have a strange sense of direction. But then so do I sometimes.”

“Which explains why I’ll still be able to walk when we get out of this truck.”

“If you didn’t want me to use the moves, you shouldn’t have taught them to me.”

His fingers tightened, forcing her head up. “Did your eyes just give a witchy flash?”

She found she could smile. “You can let go. I’m not going to try to cripple you. I’m not even going to ask why you kissed me when I know very well I started it.”

His lips curved. “You make it hard for me to resist. And I have a high level of resistance.”

Frustration allayed, she gave his chest a precautionary pat and removed her hands. “Okay, we’re good then. And square. For the moment. As for our fake marriage—you said seven years, right?”

“Yes—to that, and to your loaded earlier question. We’re happy.”

She breathed out a shaky laugh. “That must have been some sensitive trigger I pulled.”

“Squeezed. And it was. FYI, Jasmine, you could seduce my cold-as-ice great-grandfather, and he’s been dead for fifteen years.”

Amused, she made a questioning motion with her hand. “Do we have fake identities to go with our happy marriage?”

“Your middle name’s Elizabeth, so we’ll go with that. We’re Elizabeth and Michael. McCabe.”

“You’re making this up as you go, aren’t you?”

With the shadows shifting, she heard rather than saw his wry smile. “Welcome to my life, love. We’re on a road trip. We come from…”

“Ork?” she inserted when he paused. “Krypton? Vulcan?”

“Somewhere closer to home would be better. You still good in the kitchen?”

“I can still whip up a mean chicken tetrazzini—if that was a literal question.”

She saw the smile this time. “I’ll leave the innuendo alone and say we own and operate a restaurant called Fontino’s in New Orleans.”

“Will that story hold if anyone checks?”

“No one will before morning. By then, it’ll stand.”

“Not going to ask,” she promised herself and gave her temples a tap. “Okay, summing up. Lenny Grant, teacher and bird-watcher. Elizabeth and Michael McCabe, Fontino’s, New Orleans. Entered and stored. Can Boris still be Boris, or does he get a code name, too?”

Rogan inspected his backup firearm. “You’re not warming to this spy thing, are you?”

“Truthfully, I’d rather be tracking Bigfoot with my mother. Sorry if that hurts your feelings.”

“It doesn’t. But speaking of hurt, we should probably go inside and see what if anything’s up with Lenny.”

“Bet we really are on Krypton,” she murmured and set a hand on the door. “Come on, Boris. Michael McCabe has a door to jimmy. Like he did with ours.”

Sliding out, Rogan pulled her across to the driver’s seat, then set his hands on her waist and lifted her down. “Walk where I walk.” He reached back inside for a flashlight. “And stay close.”

A gust of wind blew her hair in all directions. Swiping it from her face, she peered around him. “Can I know why we’re playing follow the leader?”

“Land mines,” he said over his shoulder.

She stopped dead. “In the driveway?” Then she spotted his grin and considered ordering Boris to attack.

A moment later, however, she had her answer. The driveway, though paved, was a sea of cracks and potholes. It also sloped sharply sideways, and twice they had to step over exposed tree roots that reached almost to her knees.

A minefield, she reflected, might have been easier to navigate.

Because Rogan had his beam trained on the ground, a glimmer of light next to the cottage brought her up short. “Did you see…?”

“Yeah.” When they reached the porch, he eased her aside. “No sound,” he cautioned. “Wait here with Boris until I get back.” Then he was gone.

She leaned a hip on the railing. “I could have worked later than late at the museum tonight,” she told the dog. “Huge shipment, boxes galore. Hours of overtime.”

Despite the roar of wind that refused to subside, Jasmine managed to hear the protracted creak behind her. Whirling, she spied a large hanging pot swinging drunkenly toward her.

She reacted swiftly, grabbing the fat base and glaring into the shadows behind her. What in God’s name had prompted her to come here?

Daniel, her brain piped up. Death threat. Raven’s feather. Sliced power line.

Time stretched out. So did Jasmine’s nerves. The wind howled like a demon through the rafters. The chain holding the pot protested loudly.

Wainwright’s men had burst out of a night very similar to this one. She’d been watching the storm when she’d seen the shadows mutate. What she’d initially identified as bushes had morphed into humans. Fit, agile humans, packing three weapons apiece…

The wind wailed again. Thankfully, the memory passed. This was a different night, a different place. Here in Maine, the bushes were bushes, and the only danger she could see came from the evergreens that were swaying back and forth like drunk giants ready to topple.

As if responding to her thought, Jasmine heard a crack in the yard. She released the hanging pot as an object, possibly a branch, hit the ground with a resounding
thunk.

That’s when the darkness to her right came alive. …

Chapter Five

She could have sworn a locomotive blindsided her—or tried to. She glimpsed a body, then a blur of fur. Instead of grabbing her, the would-be attacker simply knocked her across the porch.

Boris’s growl became a furious snarl. Ripe male curses answered it. Despite the fact that her head struck the clapboard siding, Jasmine thought she recognized the voice.

The man’s fingers clawed at her trench coat. However, with Boris’s mouth clamped to his leg, she was able to avoid them. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the door. And this time slammed into a human wall.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” Rogan trapped her arms, examined her face.

“No, I’m…”

But she was talking to air. And of course the heel of her boot had jammed itself between two slats. One good yank freed it, but by then, both the men and the dog had vanished into the bushes below.

Catching hold of the planter that seemed determined to mow her down, Jasmine scanned the tangled greenery. “Rogan? Boris. Where are you?”

“We’re here,” Rogan replied.

Still growling, Boris mounted the stairs behind a large, heavyset man. Rogan brought up the rear.

Recognition widened her eyes. “Boxman?”

Sergeant Brent Boxman grunted. “See? She didn’t have to bounce me on my ass to know who I am. What’s the matter, Rogan? Your eyesight gone south because of a little rain shower?”

“More likely because of the thirty pounds you’ve packed on since the last time I saw you.”

Boxman showed his teeth. “You get a punch-drunk lawyer to fight your court battle against a divorce diva, an ex-wife from hell and two grown stepkids who tell you to your face to stuff your gun in your pants and blow your private parts sky-high, and see how you’re doing at the end of six frigging months. Your diet’s a conveyor belt of greasy burgers, beer and pizza.”

“That’s bad?”

The cop jabbed a resentful finger. “One day, pal, your lifestyle’s gonna catch up with you, and Jasmine here won’t be able to tell the difference between us, except that you’ll be lying in a pine box, and I’ll still be reeling in fish like Malcolm Wainwright.”

“You think?”

Rogan’s eyes glinted, but whether with humor or some kind of male challenge, Jasmine wasn’t sure. In any case, he was right about the weight. Boxman had developed a distinct paunch. He’d also grown a beard, added an earring and, unless her eyes were playing tricks in the glow from the flashlight, lost a lower tooth.

His gaze left Rogan to brighten on her. “So, tell me, angel face, what brings you to this slice of New England paradise?”

Reaching over, she straightened the bandanna he wore as a headband. “I got a feather and two phone calls, so Rogan made me come. You?”

“I heard—” He blinked. “You got a what?”

“Feather.” She used her hands to demonstrate. “About this long, black, probably stolen from a raven. My friend Lenny has two. That’s a bad thing in this town.”

Boxman waved a hand in front of her face. “You on happy pills or something?”

“Daniel found out about the recent murders,” Rogan explained. “He coupled them with the fact that there wasn’t much left of the helicopter that went down after the prison break and drew the same conclusion as the rest of us. It’s possible Wainwright’s not dead.”